


looking at me (who do you see)

by LadyMerlin



Series: RoyEd Week 2019 [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Don't copy to another site, Edward Elric Swears, False Identity, Future Fic, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Ling is a Good Friend, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Promised Day, References to Depression, touch-starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-07-30 23:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20105305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: Al’s in Xing. He doesn’t need to know what Ed’s planning to do. Plausible deniability, and all that. Also, it’s not hare-brained. It’s asocial experiment.Or; the one in which Ed thinks the only way anyone could like him, is if he isn't actually himself. The Fuhrer's masquerade ball seems like the perfect opportunity to test his hypothesis.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for RoyEd Week 2019 Day 6, inspired by the prompt “you’ve had some bad ideas, but this might take the cake.”
> 
> I started writing the masquerade AU ages ago and decided to use it for RoyEd week because most of Ed's ideas are bad ideas and this one fit the prompt, but then it took a life of its own. 
> 
> For context: Ed is _seriously_ depressed in this, but you've gotta picture it. It's been 5 years since the Promised Day. This Ed is a lot more uncertain than the Ed we all know, because he's realised that as an adult, he doesn't always get the outcomes he wants by behaving the way he did as a child. Everyone has moved on to better things and greener pastures. Ed is more mature now (he has to be), but people still treat him the same, and it's more than a little isolating. He doesn't know anyone who didn't know him as that angry child, and he still doesn't know how to make friends, and something is off with the way Mustang is treating him. That's why he's driven to 'desperate measures'.

The problem with having a reputation is, well. Having a reputation.

Most days, Ed is grateful that people around Central - or at least in the military - are too afraid of him to give him much shit. Al says they all respect him for saving Amestris, but Ed wasn’t born yesterday; he knows what fear looks like. 

Most days are a success if he can get from morning to night without speaking with anyone other than Mustang’s team, the librarian at whichever library he visits, and his brother, if Al remembers to call.

Some nights, he wonders if he couldn’t have been more like Al. Maybe then, people would actually want to spend time with him.

It’s not like Ed _ wants _ to spend time with people, but sometimes – and he’ll never admit this out loud – _ sometimes, _it’s lonely. Just a little bit. Sometimes Ed thinks he can feel an imaginary hand on his shoulder or someone ruffling his hair, and it’s enough to paralyze him even though he knows it’s not real, because he can’t remember the last time someone touched him without the intention of hurting him. 

This never would’ve happened to Al, mostly because Ed wouldn’t’ve allowed it to happen. He’d never have left his brother alone, in another city, all alone. But he could hardly have asked Al to stay in Amestris, especially when Mei’s in Xing, and Al wants –

Well.

Al wants to be with her, and it’s the first time in a long time Al’s been _ able _ to go after something that he wants, and that’s _ Ed’s _ fault, so how could he have protested? Al would have stayed if he’d asked, of course, but the price wasn’t one Ed was willing to pay.

Everyone likes Al, and that’s fine, Ed’s not jealous of _ that_. Ed doesn’t want them to ever _ stop _liking Al, and nor does he particularly want to be liked either. Being liked means that he’d have to be sociable, and that people would feel like they could stop him in random corridors to ask about his weekend or how his day was going or whatever the fuck. 

He doesn’t give a _ damn _ about most people in particular, though he does care quite a lot about _ The People_, as long as he doesn’t have to interact with them. Forced small-talk is reserved for the ninth circle of hell as far as he’s concerned, but he can’t help but think, on those lonely rare nights, that if he died, no one but Al would even notice him missing.

But Ed isn’t prone to melancholy, generally. Wallowing isn’t something he does with any particular grace, and even doing it gracelessly is no fun when Al’s not around to call him out. Ed is, however, good at science, and science can solve any problem if applied correctly. 

It’s been five years since Central was torn apart by the Fuhrer’s rebellion. The first Fuhrer’s Masquerade since the Promised Day is the perfect opportunity to execute yet another hare-brained scheme, in Al’s words. Or at least, that’s what he _ thinks _ Al would have said, if Ed had told him about his plan.

Al’s in Xing. He doesn’t need to know what Ed’s planning to do. Plausible deniability, and all that. Also, it’s not hare-brained. It’s a _ social experiment_. 

Besides, it’s a masquerade. No one will miss Ed’s presence any more than they’ll notice his absence. He’s already been told not to attend if he’s not going to behave himself, and if there’s one more masked person indistinguishable from five hundred other masked people, well. Who’d be able to tell?

He even practices in front of a mirror; modulating his voice and tone, calling on his travels for foreign accepts and phrases for authenticity, until he doesn’t sound like himself anymore. Because that’s essentially the problem; he’s too much like himself, and not enough like other people. Like Al, or Hawkeye, or even Mustang, that bastard.

He manages to find a suit to cover his leg and arm, and matching black velvet gloves to disguise the temperature disparity between his automail and flesh hands. He already knows how to dance, which he thinks might be what throws people off, most. No one expects Edward “Farm-Boy” Elric to know how to dance, but he and Al had learned it from their mother. She’d wanted her children to appreciate the finer things in life, too, though they’d never thought to ask where she’d learned. Now he guesses they’ll never know. 

Despite his initial enthusiasm, he almost changes his mind a hundred times; one minute he’s definitely going and the next, he’s definitely not. He exhausts himself with indecisiveness, torn between trying to turn over a new leaf and pretending that there’s nothing wrong with the same old leaf he’s always been. 

The thing that finally makes him decide is that if he does try, Al would be proud of him. Even if he doesn’t succeed and makes a laughing-stock of himself, Al would be proud of him for venturing out of his comfort zone. It’s motivation enough.

He doesn’t bother applying for leave on the day of the masquerade; the office is mostly empty anyway, with only a skeleton crew on duty, and work doesn’t really feel like work when no one’s breathing down his neck to do it. Not that that’s a problem for Ed, but the logic applies. It’s a slow, easy day, and Ed spends most of it daydreaming. Neither Riza nor Mustang are there to call him out on it, and it’s not like Fuery would ever tattle. 

He leaves before six, but so does Fuery, and they grin conspiratorially at each other as they lock up the office. Riza had said this is how it had always been on the day of the Fuhrer’s Masquerade before the Promised Day. People take leave to gussy up for the event, because it’s the biggest event in Amestris, and only the sufficiently rich and famous are invited. As war heroes, they fall under the latter category, if not necessarily the former. 

Ed had made a big show of shredding his invitation the minute he received it, but if he hadn’t, people would have suspected something was off immediately. He’d painstakingly alchemized the pieces together that night. It was a wonder that his own facades hadn’t killed him yet. 

Or his paranoia. 

The masquerade is held at the Fuhrer’s Palace. The Fuhrer doesn’t actually live there anymore, but whoever is in charge of these things had apparently decided that the entire grounds had to be preserved as a monument to the nation’s turbulent past or some shit like that. Personally, Ed didn’t know how a giant building made of white marble and surrounded by lush gardens could possibly memorialise a war, but hey, no one had asked him.

He’d have preferred to enter (and exit) from the back but the risk of getting caught is too high, so he grits his teeth and gets in line at the main entrance, taking the chance to observe the people around him. 

Most are in groups of twos and threes, people who clearly arranged to meet their friends and colleagues ahead of time. So the masquerade isn’t as anonymous as he’d thought it would be, but he’s banking on the sheer number of people to disguise him. He imagines it’d be really hard for someone like Major Armstrong to go unrecognized, especially in this crowd, but apart from his automail, Ed doesn’t have any physical distinguishing features. There are dozens of average-looking blonde men in the room, even men with long blonde hair. With his mask on, he’s going to be _ fine_.

He hopes. 

Once he’s inside the ballroom though, Ed kind of hates everything in his life that has led him to this point. It’s busy; packed with people in a way that’s more stifling than any market Ed has ever been to. No one is shouting, but with so many people talking at once, the murmur of voices sounds more like a roar. Ed is silently, furiously grateful that his entrance hadn’t been announced. 

He’s also achingly lonely. Masquerade it may be, but for now people are still standing with their friends and their acquaintances. Maybe the groups will disperse in a while, when the schmoozing really starts. 

Or maybe this is how Ed is going to spend the rest of the evening, in a corner, too stressed to even contemplate the buffet table. How are people supposed to make friends at these things? How is he supposed to approach anyone? What, is he just supposed to walk up to a group and introduce himself? 

He can’t even do that, since he’s basically undercover. God, what had he been thinking? He can’t even sit at his assigned table, because that’s where the rest of Mustang’s team will be, and he’s not confident enough that they won’t see through his disguise. He’s probably already attracting attention, because everyone else is moving around and he’s still standing there, like his feet are rooted to the ground. No fight has ever stressed him out this much. “Fullmetal, you’ve had some bad ideas,” he says under his breath, “but one takes the cake.” 

“Are you talking to yourself?” comes a familiar voice, rich and low, right into his ear. It takes _ every single ounce of control _to not spin around and smack Mustang for sneaking up on him. But he can’t. He’s pretending to be Al, tonight. He satisfies himself with jumping and pressing a hand to his heart in a way he’s seen Al do, hoping that the gesture doesn’t come off as faked. 

“No,” he lies, but his voice cracks on the way out so he has to try again. “No, I’m not.”

“I must have been mistaken, then. My apologies,” Mustang says, bowing at him, left arm folded behind his waist and the right pressed diagonally across his chest, palm over his heart. It’s the most gentlemanly thing Ed has ever seen, and it takes a long second for Ed to realise that he’s supposed to bow back. 

“Uh, sorry,” he says, bowing back with no particular grace, scowling when his long ponytail slips over his shoulder. “Sorry. Your mask is nice,” he manages to say, because it is, and because Ed really _ really _ doesn’t want to accidentally tell Mustang that he cleans up nice. The mask only covers Mustang’s eyes and it’s covered in feathers so black they’re almost blue, and small glittering crystals that catch the light when he moves. He’s not great at describing things, but it suits Mustang’s face, and he must know it, if the smug smirk that pulls at his lips is anything to go by. 

“Thank you. As is yours,” he says, but Ed can’t tell if he’s being sincere. He made the mask himself and no one else has seen it so he honestly has no idea if it looks good or not, but whatever. He’s here on a mission. He’s going to make a friend tonight if it kills him. 

“Thanks. I made it myself.” And then, “uh, am I allowed to ask your name?” If anyone knows the rules, Mustang would. 

Mustang laughs and oddly the sound doesn’t make Ed want to punch the man. Normally Ed hates it when Mustang laughs at him because it always sounds like he’s laughing _ at _ Ed, but today he just sounds like he’s happy. It’s almost confirmation of the fact that Mustang simply doesn’t like _ him_, and the thought makes him sadder than he thought it would. 

“Is this your first masquerade?” Mustang asks instead of replying. He offers his arm and Ed takes it gingerly, copying what he’s seen people doing around the ballroom. He grits his teeth against the heat that suffuses his face and body at the simple touch; it’s not even that intimate, he shouldn’t be feeling this way. He nods, following Mustang when he leads. “You may ask my name, but I don’t have to tell you the truth. For tonight, you can call me Roy.” 

Ed blinks, tilts his head, and then nods. “Alright, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Roy.” He doesn’t offer his name, because if Mustang wants it he’s going to have to ask, and also because Ed hasn’t picked a fake name yet and oh _ god_, _ why is he even here? _

Mustang throws his head back and laughs, looking unfairly fucking handsome, the bastard. “You’re very clever, little fox.” 

“I’d like to think so,” Ed replies, curling his vowels in a way that makes him sound distinctly Cretan. It’s possible that his hand is trembling on Mustang’s elbow, but instead of pointing it out, Mustang just puts another hand on top of it, pressing Ed’s hand until it’s warm and still. Ed thinks that his sixteen year old self would have exploded of jealousy by now. It’s a good thing that Ed is able to keep most of his screaming internal, these days.

“Don’t be worried, little fox. No one here will hurt you, and _ I’m _ the envy of the ballroom right now, for having you on my arm.” 

A hundred stupid comments bubble up behind his teeth, starting from a retort that he’s _ not afraid _ to a callout on how full of shit Mustang is; who the heck would be jealous of _ him?_ “Thank you,” Ed says instead. “Aren’t you here with your friends?” 

“I am indeed,” Mustang replies, noticing his discomfort but not pursuing it. “But I’ve lost track of most of them, and when I noticed you standing in the corner looking quite upset, I couldn’t help myself.” 

“Do you fancy yourself a knight in shining armour then?” Ed asks, accidentally saying what he wants to say instead of something polite and charming and funny, _ fuck_.

Thankfully Mustang just laughs, pressing a hand over his stomach like it’s the funniest fucking thing he’s ever heard and Ed seriously wants to punch the bastard, but no. He’s pretending to be Al tonight. Al doesn’t go around punching handsome strangers for laughing at his jokes.

“I’d like to think of myself as a gentleman, but I’ve never heard it with quite such disdain before, little fox.” Somehow the moniker sounds affectionate when Mustang says it, and it makes Ed’s head spin, because what? _ What_?

A waiter steps past with a tray full of champagne glasses and Mustang swipes two without breaking the waiter’s step, moving almost like he’s dancing. He offers a glass to Ed, bending slightly at the waist and making even that movement look grand and elegant, somehow. 

It’s incredibly awkward when Ed shakes his head. “Sorry, no thank you. I’m not drinking tonight,” he says, trying to smile not-so-awkwardly. Not because Ed has anything against free drinks, in principle, but he’s nervous as fuck and the last thing he needs now is a free flow on an empty stomach. Sober Ed is tired of taking responsibility for drunk Ed’s actions. “But you can go ahead, it’s fine.”

Mustang shakes his head and smiles gently. “Now what kind of gentleman would that make me?” He asks, and returns the glasses to another waiter passing by. He doesn’t look upset in the least, which makes Ed feel a bit better. “Any reason you’re not indulging?” He asks, offering Ed his arm again.

Ed shakes his head and resists the urge to tell Mustang to mind his own fucking business. Al would be sincere and disarming, so Ed tells the truth; “nerves, empty stomach, I’m here alone, take your pick. There’s a bunch of reasons, but mainly I don’t want to make an ass out of myself.” He winces as the vulgarity slips past his lips, but doesn’t retract it. 

He sees Mustang processing and then accepting it before he speaks again. “Lady Luck must be smiling down on me, if you’re here alone. In that case, may I have this dance?”

Ed resists the urge to point a finger at himself and ask ‘me?’ like an idiot. But he does have to check; “You don’t have to, Roy. I’m sure there are plenty of people you could dance with. You don’t have to dance with me.” 

“Ah little fox, you’re correct, I don’t have to, but I want to. In fact, I’d love to, if you are agreeable.” He sounds perfectly sincere and to be honest, Ed does want to dance. It’s been a really long time since he last had the opportunity. He accepts Mustang’s offered hand and follows him to the floor, where couples are already dancing to a sweet little song, neither too fast nor too slow. 

“It’s been a while since I danced with anyone, so you’ll have to forgive me any missteps,” Ed warns, allowing Mustang to put his hand on his waist, resting his own hand on Mustang’s shoulder. He almost wants to duck away so that Mustang isn’t touching him anymore, but he forces himself to stay still and stand in the proper position, letting the slight weight of Roy’s hands sink into his skin. Outside of life threatening circumstance, he’s never been this close to the man before, and it’s a little disconcerting.

Mustang just smiles charmingly and starts moving. “I will treasure any bruised toes as a precious gift,” he says, and it occurs to Ed belatedly that he’s being flirted with. This is flirting, what the _ fuck_.

He rolls his eyes and pretends that the revelation hasn’t shocked him to the core. God if Mustang ever finds out who he is, it’s going to go so fucking badly. Ed has fucked up many times in his life, but this one is right up there on the top ten list of fuck ups in his life. What had he been _ thinking_.

He laughs as his feet remember the steps instinctively, letting Mustang lead. “I’m not actually that bad, Roy. Just a little unpracticed.” Like _ fuck _ is he going to bruise Mustang’s toes.

“You dance quite well, actually. I thought you might insist on leading,” Mustang murmurs, because they’re close enough to hear each other without having to shout. 

Ed shrugs gently, careful not to dislodge Mustang’s hands. “I was taught to lead and follow. Diplomacy is about give and take,” he says, relying on his fake backstory. Mustang’s eyes gleam at the tidbit and Ed - Ed is more entranced by the look on his face than he should be. He thought he’d grown out of the crush years ago, but it’s just typical that the hormones would resurface at a time like this.

“So you’re a Cretan diplomat?” He asks, turning Ed with a hand on the small of his back to support him. Ed nods, satisfied that his fake accent has been noted and accepted. “I’ve never seen you around here, before.” 

“Are you important enough to have met many diplomats?” Ed asks, blandly, because Mustang isn’t the only one who can tease. 

Roy laughs out loud and something stirs in the pit of his stomach, and Ed clenches down on it. Not now. This is not the time for these feelings. He is not Edward Elric tonight. Al would never be so pathetic as to get all giddy over a stranger he’d just met. 

“I have met a fair few in the course of my work,” Mustang says, still not telling Ed much about himself. “But I think I would have recognised you.” Oh, if only he knew that he’s known Ed since he was eleven fucking years old. 

Fake!Ed shrugs and lets it go. “I was just transferred here from Xing. The Cretan ambassador in Amestris was retiring and Xing… was not in urgent need of a representative.” Even Ed is a little impressed at how well Fake!Ed is spinning this. 

“I’d heard, yes. That’s a very graceful way of describing relations between our nations, little fox.” Mustang looks a little impressed too, and Ed resists the urge to preen. 

“You’ve asked me many things about myself,” he says instead. “But I have heard very little about you, Roy.” Time to turn the tables a bit. Friendship was about equivalent exchange, right? Al wouldn’t monopolise the conversation, so he shouldn’t either.

“I’d beg to differ, little fox. I don’t even know your name.”

“But I don’t know yours either, for certain, do I?” Ed parries back, and Mustang just dips a head in acknowledgement of the jab. 

“I am an officer in the Amestris military. I lead a team of men and women. I am an alchemist, if that helps.” 

Ed lets his eyes light up at the mention of the thing he loves most, and tries not to overthink the expression on Mustang’s face. He doesn’t know what it means; he doesn’t want to know. This isn’t real. The person Mustang is attracted to isn’t real. 

“I have heard very much about Amestrian alchemy,” he says, letting Mustang dip him backwards again. Everytime he thinks he’s getting used to Mustang’s touch, he does something new and Ed starts feeling sensitive again, hyper aware of Mustang’s hands on his body. “It is very different from Xingese alkahestry and Cretan transfiguration. I have read a very good treatise recently about how the sources are different, actually, which explains the differences between the types, and I—” Ed stops himself short, realising that he’s babbling, and that not everyone likes to hear an alchemist’s rambling. “I apologise. I get carried away, sometimes.” 

“Don’t apologise,” Mustang says, pulling him even closer. “It’s always good to meet someone who loves their topic of study. You remind me of one of my team members. He is also blonde and beautiful, and a fan of alchemy. A true genius, in fact. You should meet him, someday.” 

He’s talking about Ed, what the actual _ fuck_. Ed ducks his head to hide his blush. “You flatter me, Roy.” When he looks up, Mustang looks utterly charmed, and oh god. This is not good. This is very bad. 

“Not at all,” Mustang says, but before he can finish the rest of his sentence, a hand touches Ed’s shoulder and he spins around to find Prince Ling-fucking-Yao standing there, a slightly baffled smile on his face. Ed immediately drops into a low bow, remembering his identity as a Cretan ambassador who’d been in Xing. Of course he’d know who the crown prince was. 

Ling claps a hand on his shoulder and forces him to stand. “Now now, none of that,” he says, “is that any way to greet an old friend?” he asks, pulling Ed into a hug. Thankfully he seems to have picked up on the fact that Ed is undercover, because he’s never hugged Ed before and the whole experience is making Ed a little giddy. “General Mustang, may I interrupt? Xing has been a little emptier since my friend left.” 

Mustang’s smile is different now, a little more forced and fixed and less natural, but he bows too. “Of course, Prince Ling. Little fox,” he says, dipping into an even lower bow for Ed, which is actually pretty offensive towards Ling but _ okay_. “I hope you will save at least one more dance for me. It was a pleasure.” 

“I’ll find you,” Ed promises, _ like an idiot_, before accepting Ling’s hand. 

They dance for a moment in absolute silence before Ling breaks it. “What the actual fuck?” 

Ed sighs and presses his forehead against Ling’s shoulder, and he knows it’s too familiar but it’s the same damn sentiment that’s been echoing in his head for hours now, and he’s going to lose his mind. No one was supposed to witness this monumental fuck up. “Yeah,” he says, because there’s nothing else to be said. “I was - there’s no one at home.” He shrugs, because he doesn’t need to say it; Al is in Xing. He’s living in Ling’s palace. “The people I work with barely tolerate me. Strangers are afraid of me. I just didn’t want to be me, for one night.” 

Ling sighs and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Ed. And a lot more people like you thank you think. Mustang looked so smitten that I only actually came here to check out who’d caught his attention. I didn’t realise it was you until I tapped your shoulder and I saw your eyes.” 

“I’ve changed my eye-colour Ling, what are you talking about.” 

“I’m not - you idiot. I know your _ eyes _ . I know your _ face_. It’s not the colour that gives you away.” 

Ed doesn’t have the energy to fight. His cover has already been blown so he might as well as accept the fact that his embarrassment is going to go down in history, forever. Ling will tell Al and then Al will tell Mei and then Mei will tell _ everyone _ and by the end of it, even Winry will have heard about it in Resembool. He might as well as just leap off a high turret tonight and end his suffering before it begins. 

“Mustang doesn’t like _ me_, Ling. Mustang likes Fake!Ed who smiles and laughs at his jokes and isn’t as smart as him, or smarter. Mustang likes Fake!Ed who hasn’t seen him at his worst, and that seems to be my habit; catching people at their worst.” 

“No single word is enough to describe how stupid you are, but I can see you’re miserable so I’ll refrain from composing an ode to your idiocy.” 

“You’re a real friend, Ling,” Ed says drily. 

“Are you actually dying? I’m worried now. Are you okay?” Ling pats the back of his head and Ed sighs, trying not to lean into the touch. “You’re freaking me out.” 

Ed shrugs, because what can he say? The past few months have been… empty. He can’t remember a single day that stood out to him. It’s like all the colours are fading away from his life. Ling’s hand on his head is possibly the nicest thing he’s ever felt. “Just tired, I guess. I’m trying to change things. I came here to make friends but the plan was a fuck-up from beginning to end. Like, even if I made a friend, how long would I be able to keep up the facade? And sooner or later someone was going to recognize me. I should have thought it through, properly.” 

“You definitely have friends, Ed. I’m your friend, for one. Al, Winry, Mustang’s entire team. We’d lay down our lives for you, you know?” 

Ed nods, still pressed into Ling’s shoulder. “I know, and I’d do that too. But sometimes I just want someone to ask about my day, you know? If I went missing between the office and my apartment on a Friday night, no one would even realise I was gone until Monday. I just want someone to talk to, everyday. About not-work stuff.” He sighs. “Forget it, I know I’m not making sense. I’m being really melodramatic, sorry.” 

“I think this may be the first time I’ve ever heard you apologise?” Ling muses, and then steps back, sliding his hand into Ed’s. “C’mon. I’m going to get you some food and we’re going to go outside and talk. You’re going to be alright, Ed. You’re not alone.” 

Ling grabs an entire tray of colourful canapes (and no one stops him because his appetites are famous, even in Amestris) and leads Ed out into the garden. They sit on a stone bench with the tray between them, and Ed lifts his mask a little to eat them, because food generally makes him feel better. 

“Maybe you need to change things up?” Ling suggests, after they’ve cleared about half the tray. “Do something new with your time?” 

Ed considers it. “I’ve been thinking about going to the Ishvalan slums recently. Maybe fixing some stuff. Taking some food and toys for the kids. I can definitely afford it, and they probably won’t turn me away.” 

“That is not what I was thinking, but it’s a good idea!” Ling exclaims, “charity work is always a good idea. And they definitely need help, so why not, right? You’re the least condescending person I know.” 

“Thanks, Ling.” 

“Are you dating anyone?” 

Ed snorts, because _ right_. He can’t even make friends, where the heck is he supposed to find a boyfriend or a girlfriend? “The last person I was attracted to was Mustang, back there. Tell me how fucked I am,” he says, turning to face Ling. 

Ling pretends to vomit but that’s more because he hates Mustang than anything else. “You’re fucked _ up _, but you’re not entirely fucked. I mean, unless you want to be. You should have seen the way he was looking at you, Ed. If you’d asked him to go home with you, he would have. I’d bet money on it.” 

“We’ve already been through this. Fake Ed, remember?” 

“You’re underestimating your own charms. _ I _ like you more than I like Fake Ed, and I bet most of your friends do, too. If you turned up at the office on Monday being all nice and polite, do you think they’d want that?” 

Ed shrugs. It sounds bizarre but he doesn’t even know anymore; maybe they would. “Forget it, Ling. Don’t worry about me. I just need to get used to it.” Ling makes an inarticulate noise of rage, but before he can say anything, Ed presses on. “How is Al?” 

Ling sighs. “He’s doing well. Mei makes me crazy but Al seems to like her. And she _ definitely _ likes him. I think he’s happy. I mean, he wants for nothing. He talks about you a lot, but I think we both know you’d hate it in Xing.”

Ed nods, because yeah, he would. He’s still considering what else he wants to say when Ling stiffens, looking up like a dog that’s smelled something interesting. “Game face on,” he whispers. “Mustang is approaching.” Ed quickly lowers his mask again, brushing pastry crumbs off his jacket. 

Grass rustles as Mustang comes closer, not even attempting to disguise his approach. “Gentlemen,” he says, announcing himself when he’s within eye sight. Ling snorts but doesn’t say anything. “I came out to check if everything was alright? You left the ballroom in a hurry,” he says, seemingly directing the comment at Ling. Well, at least the dislike is mutual. 

“Is it illegal for friends to talk at the Fuhrer’s masquerade?” Ling asks, archly. “No one informed me of this rule.” 

“Prince Ling,” Ed interjects, before they can actually start arguing. “It’s okay. I’ll see you again before you leave, alright? Don’t worry.” 

Ling sighs and stands up, scoffing. “I’ve never worried about anything ever in my life,” he announces, before darting in and pressing their lips together quickly. “Bye!” he says, suddenly cheerful, and then he’s gone. 

Ed groans and leans back against the bench, shivering as the cold stone leeches all his warmth. “Please, Roy, have a seat. Prince Ling is going to be the death of me,” he sighs. 

Mustang sits down stiffly, frown visible even in the low light. “Did he force you?” he asked, stiltedly. 

It takes a second for Ed to understand what he’s being asked, and it makes him splutter and laugh. “Oh god, _ no _ , it’s not like that. God, I’m so sorry, but _ no _. He’s a good friend. We’ve been through some hard times together. We’re from different countries but we met when we were younger and - no. There’s nothing like that between us. He was just updating me on someone in Xing. Someone I’d left behind.” 

“Your partner?” Mustang asks, still a little stiff, but looking a little less concerned. 

Ed laughs, even though it’s not really funny. “No, no. Family. It’s complicated.” 

Mustang sighs and finally leans back, angling himself to face Ed. “In my experience, family always is.” 

“Yeah? Tell me about yours?” Ed asks, suddenly emboldened. What does he even have to lose, anymore? 

And Mustang does, and Ed listens, sharing his own anecdotes and opinions, letting them sink into a haze of comfortable conversation. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a conversation this honest with Mustang before, or with anyone else, _ ever _. It’s incredible. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ed says idly, mustering his courage to press his knee against Mustang’s, once they’ve relegated the tray to the ground. “I’m glad you’re spending time with me, but I’m surprised there’s no one you’d rather be with, tonight. There must be hundreds of people more interesting than me, in there,” he tilts his chin towards the ballroom in the distance, brightly lit and bustling. 

Mustang presses his knee back against Ed’s without any hesitation, extending the contact all the way up their thighs until they’re sitting pressed up against each other. Mustang is a solid block of warmth against the chill of the evening and Ed leans into him, helplessly.

“You’re wrong, little fox. I have a lot of friends but they’re mostly the people I work with, and we don’t talk like this. I have a lot of acquaintances but it’s mostly political. I can’t remember the last person who asked me about my family. I think you’re the first person I’ve spoken to so frankly, in years.” 

“Is adulthood always so… lonely?” Ed asks, accidentally letting the words slip while trying to hide his pleasure at Mustang’s words. 

Mustang sighs and turns so that Ed’s weight is leaning against his chest, and their faces are inches apart. “I don’t know if it is for everyone, but it has been, for me. And doesn’t that sound pathetic? I should be saying things to impress you but instead I’m cheerfully making a fool of myself. You’re dangerously easy to talk to, little fox.” His hand is so close to Ed’s that he has to actively resist the urge to lace their fingers together. Some part of Ed is worried that he’s still misreading this, but Ling had been so sure...

“I’m not, usually,” he confesses. “I’m quite opinionated, normally. I’m not a very good diplomat. I don’t make friends easily. This is as unusual for me as it is for you, though I don’t know how you could possibly be like me. I mean, you’re you. I can barely string a sentence together, outside my work.”

“That’s not true,” Mustang says, sounding almost painfully sincere. “I like you very much, just as you are. I think you’re very charming, and an excellent diplomat.” 

Mustang is going to explode when - _ if _\- he ever figures out who Ed is. He needs to extract himself from this, before it gets any more painful. “I really am sorry for taking up so much of your time, Roy. I’m sure people inside have missed you.” 

“I’m not sorry,” Roy replies. “And I don’t particularly care. I’ve had a nicer evening with you than I could have ever hoped for. Though,” he says, hesitant for the first time. “If you do want to make it up to me, may I have one more dance with you?” 

And how is Ed supposed to refuse, when he wants it, too? He’s only a man. He offers Roy a hand, and when Roy takes it, he stands up and pulls Roy with him. The garden is quiet, except for strains of music from inside, and fairy lights in the trees are the only things lighting the clearing. The moon is bright in the sky, and Ed’s heart is pounding in his chest. 

Roy puts his hands on Ed’s waist and Ed takes the first step, to lead. Roy follows him quietly, pressing their bodies a lot closer than is proper, but Ed isn’t going to complain. They dance like they’ve done it a thousand times before, like their bodies know each other, and it’s almost unreal how it feels, like it’s a dream of some sort, or a hallucination. 

“Little fox,” Mustang says, when the song comes to an end, and they’re both standing there, arms laced like neither of them have any intention of moving away, “may I kiss you?” 

Ed doesn’t think. He doesn’t stop to consider the consequences. He doesn’t hesitate. He lifts the bottom of his mask and presses their lips together, trying to pour all his feelings into the kiss. Mustang kisses back just as fiercely, wrapping him in a tight hug which feels so good that Ed can’t breathe for it, and he thinks if he died like this, he’d be okay with it, with his eyes squeezed shut and Mustang’s lips on his and their tongues intertwined and so much _ warmth _ \- 

It all comes shattering down when someone calls, “Oi! Chief! Are you out here?” and they both startle apart as Ed recognizes Havoc’s voice in the distance. _ No _. “Everyone’s looking for you!” Havoc calls, much closer now. 

He pulls the mask over his face and something in his eyes must give away his intention because Mustang tries to catch him, but Ed is too fast. He twists his wrists out of Mustang’s grip and takes a step back, out of Mustang’s reach. “Little fox,” he starts, voice pleading, but Ed shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry. This has been a dream but we can’t do this. I’m sorry, Roy,” Ed says, because it’s what Al would say instead of kissing the man one last time the way he wants to. 

And then he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't just give you guys a full uninterrupted week of fluffy meet-cutes, could I? All aboard motherf*ckers, we're on a non-stop express train to angst central.
> 
> P.S. despite all appearances to the contrary, neither Ling nor Ed are interested in each other. This is exclusively a RoyEd fic; Ling is just very good at needling people.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're travelling at 100kmph and Ling is but a mere speedbump on the highway to hell.
> 
> The sound track to this is a song called "Sour Grapes" by John the Ghost, and also a song called "Mt. St. Helen's" by Mirah. Also anything by Mitski that makes you cry.

Ed is dreading work on Monday, but it turns out he shouldn’t have worried. Roy doesn’t turn up. He doesn’t turn up on Tuesday either. When he _ does _ turn up on Wednesday, he looks like garbage. Ed wants to make the expected joke about overindulging and hangovers, but he doesn’t. This isn’t a hangover. 

Roy looks the way Ed feels; heartsick. 

Truth be told, Ed hadn’t thought that it would affect Roy at all, and definitely not like this. Everyone tiptoes around him, and Ed does too, pretending he’s just following suit. He does his work and doesn’t really interact with Roy, the way it’s been for years, but it feels different now. After that kiss, it’s like he wants to reach out and touch the man, like there’s something pulling them together. 

He almost laughs at the thought of the look on Roy’s face, if Ed actually walked up to him and hugged him now. He had his chance, and now he’s lost it. It’s just something he’s going to have to live with. 

He still looks like garbage when Ling comes to pick him up for lunch. He knocks on the door and schmoozes with Riza until Ed’s packed his desk and is ready to leave. Ling is about to whisk him away when Ed plants his feet and stops in front of Riza. “Hey, I know the bastard isn’t doing alright. Can I pick up some lunch or something?” 

Riza’s eyes soften but she shakes her head. “It’s alright, Edward. He’s just being stubborn about something, that’s all. Thank you for asking.” 

Ed shrugs awkwardly, and pretends he can’t feel her gaze on his back as he follows Ling out of the office. 

“Where do you wanna eat?” Ling asks, practically bouncing at the thought of lunch. His friend is such an idiot that Ed can’t help but laugh. 

“Wherever you want, dingus. I’m not paying, remember?” 

Ling groans. “There’s only so many times you can extort lunch out of me, you know? I’ve already paid you back for that time!” 

“Yeah,” Ed agrees, “but you’re the crown prince now, and I’m a mere major in the military. It’d be embarrassing if I had to pay.” Ling groans again but doesn’t deny it. 

Ling brings him to a quiet restaurant that serves semi-authentic Xingese food, which he proceeds to inhale like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. “Seriously,” Ed asks, “I’m a big eater too, but where the hell do you put it all?” 

Ling shrugs, emptying out his third bowl of rice. “I don’t know, where do you keep all your spare angst? You’ve clearly got buckets of it lying around.” 

Ed flinches. “Can we not talk about it?” 

“Not talking about it is what’s got you to this point. I saw Mustang the other day and he looked like ass. Not talking about it has fucked up _ both _ of you.” 

Ed shakes his head and sticks his chopsticks into his rice, in a way that he knows makes Ling crazy, hoping that it distracts him from the topic at hand. Ling snarls and confiscates Ed’s chopsticks to lay them flat on the bowl, but doesn’t take the bait. “Talk,” he says, crossing his arms. 

Ed shrugs again. “What is there to talk about, Ling. He’s interested in some mysterious Cretan ambassador who combs his hair and colour coordinates his wardrobe. I’ve been here all along and he’s never once looked at me.” 

“Well have you looked at him?” Ling asks, sounding unfairly reasonable. 

“No,” Ed admits. “But he’s my boss. I can’t - it’d be weird.” 

“I checked that out, actually. He’s not really your boss, is he? You work with his team but you’re not a part of it, officially.” 

“I know,” Ed says, “which also sucks.” 

Ling brandishes his fork at Ed. “No, it _ doesn’t._ It means you’re _ not _fraternising if you decide to fuck him.”

Ed snorts. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Ling. He’s my boss.” 

“No, he’s literally not. You’re not assigned to his team. You’re his external alchemical consultant. That means you’re outside the chain of his command. He can’t fire you. Metaphorically, I don’t know about literally, but Ed. Listen to me. How can you expect him to look at you - Edward Elric - if you never look at him? He could never take the first step without making it weird, you know this. I know a lot of people who think the two of you have been fucking for _ years _now.” 

Ed screws up his face. “I mean, I had a crush on him when I was a kid but it became pretty obvious that he wasn’t into that.” 

“I _ knew _ it!” Ling exclaims. “You were a _ kid _ , Ed. If he’d reciprocated then, it wouldn’t just have been weird, it would have been _ illegal_.” Which, yeah. Fair. 

“But it’s not like there’s a smaller age difference between us now. He’s still fourteen years older than me. I’ve still known him for more than half my life.” 

“You’re a different person now, Ed. You’ve changed, right? I can’t believe I’m the one who has to tell you this, but you’re an adult. So what if you knew each other when you were both younger? You’re different now.” 

“I don’t think he’ll ever see me as anything but a stupid kid, Ling.” 

Ling groans and presses his forehead against the table. “There’s just no reasoning with you, Ed. I don’t even know what to say.” 

Ed shrugs and steals a bite of Ling’s chicken. “Don’t say anything. There’s nothing else to say. I just have to get on with my life. Maybe I’ll go out and sleep with a stranger, or something. Gotta lose that virginity sometime,” he says, just to make Ling moan. 

“I’m too young for this, I’m not ready to be a responsible adult figure. _ Help. _” Ed just steals another bite of chicken. He’s going to be okay. He’s used to not getting what he wants. He’ll be alright. 

-

This is what Ed _ doesn’t _ know:

Ling lets himself into Mustang’s office when everyone else has left for the day. He knows for a fact that Mustang has a report due tomorrow. He knows this because he’s the one who requested it. 

_ Oh_, the things he does for his friends. 

He doesn’t bother knocking, and just pushes the inner door open. Mustang sighs and doesn’t look up. “What is it Riza?” 

“Oh, you call her by her first name? That’s unprofessional,” Ling comments, leaning against the doorframe. 

Mustang freezes and looks up at him, putting his pen carefully onto the table. “Prince Yao.” He doesn’t get up to bow, which is fine, Ling doesn’t care about formality anyway. 

“I hear you’ve been looking for my friend from the night of the ball,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

Mustang stiffens even more and his face has turned into ice. “Where would you have heard a thing like that?” 

“Oh,” Ling replies arily, “here and there. That’s actually why I’m here. I wonder if you’ve already figured out that he wasn’t the Cretan ambassador?” 

The Cretan ambassador is actually eighty years old and also about eighty-per-cent deaf. He also walks with a limp and has a white beard that reaches down to his knees. 

“It was a good prank,” Mustang says stiffly. “I was foolish enough to buy into it. I don’t expect you would be kind enough to keep this to yourself.” 

Ling sighs and walks into the office, closing the door behind him. “Mustang, I can assure you, it wasn’t a prank. I can’t tell you who it was, because I like my friend a lot more than I like you, but for the same reason, I can tell you where to look. Start with the guest list. You’ll notice someone was in attendance whom you hadn’t expected. You have no reason to trust me, but you have nothing to lose either, do you?” he asks, knowing he’s right. 

Mustang’s gritted teeth answer his question. Ling shrugs. “Up to you, Mustang. Do as you like. But remember this. If you hurt my friend, you answer to me. This has messed him up as much as it did you. If you are as intelligent as they say, you’ll know what to do when you figure it out.” 

From there it’s easy enough to see; the only person who was in attendance even though they had seen him destroy his invitation is Edward Elric. 

-

This is what Ed _ does _ know: 

In the end, it’s easy. 

He’s in his shower when the doorbell rings. He’s expecting a delivery so he calls for the person to just let himself in, that he’ll be out in a minute. 

He’s still toweling his hair dry when he steps into his living room and finds Roy standing there, staring at the fox masque sitting in a cardboard box on Ed’s dining table. “It was you?” he asks, looking up at Ed with wide eyes. 

Ed can actually feel the colour draining from his face, and he sways, torn between turning and running away and fighting back. Why was Roy here? Why was he looking at Ed’s stuff?! None of his questions make it from his brain to his mouth, and in the end, he just nods. 

“Why…” Roy trails off, clearly unable to find the rest of his question. 

Ed stares at the ground, wishing it would open up and swallow him whole. “I was so alone,” he replies, _ hating _ how pathetic he sounds, and god fucking _ damn it _, this wasn’t supposed to happen. “I just wanted to meet someone who didn’t know me, and didn’t already hate me. I didn’t mean to meet you,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. 

“Is that the only reason why you... Why we…” Ed understands what he’s asking, and shakes his head. 

“_No. _I wouldn’t have kissed you if I hadn’t wanted to. I know I stole something. I know you would never knowingly kiss me, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ro— Mustang.” He’s been thinking of him as Roy in his head, ever since the masquerade. He’s been a fool. There are going to be consequences. He hopes Ling will let him run away to Xing with him. 

He’s still staring at the ground when footsteps approach, and even though he’s bracing for a punch he still flinches when Roy raises a hand. Roy stops mid-air, and then continues slowly, cupping his hand around Ed’s cheek. Ed looks up, more shocked by the gentleness of the touch than by the threat of violence. Roy’s hand is soft, even though his skin is calloused and rough. “Why would you think that?” he asks, and Ed doesn’t understand the question. “Why would you think that I would never knowingly kiss you?” 

Ed scoffs and steps backwards, wrenching himself away from the touch he’s been dreaming about because _ god,_ what is he even doing. “You hate me, Mustang. I know you do. You hate everything about me. When the team invites me out, you always excuse yourself. When I go for lunch with Riza, you always have other plans. I stopped hanging out with the team because it’s so obvious you can’t even stand being around me. When I come back from the library I can hear you laughing sometimes, but you don’t ever laugh in front of me. You don’t ever talk to me in the office, unless you have to. You don’t even touch me. You’ll go out of your way to walk around me. It’s so obvious I can’t believe you’re even asking me this. Did you think I wouldn’t see it?” 

“I’m a fool, Mustang. But I’m not blind. I know better than to expect people to like someone like me.” Ed knows better than to expect getting what he wants.

Roy looks increasingly grieved with every word that Ed says, and by the end of it his entire face is pinched and drawn, like he’s in agony and he doesn’t know what to do about it. His jaw is clenched and Ed waits for the reckoning. 

“I’m sorry.” He swallows hard. “I’m so _ sorry,_ Ed. I never wanted you to feel that way. I don’t hate you at all. I liked you - I _ like _you, far more than I should. I thought I was being inappropriate, and far too obvious. I thought you were withdrawing because I made you uncomfortable. I promise, I’ve never hated you. Not even a bit.” 

The words, even though Ed isn’t sure he believes them entirely, loosen a knot in his chest that’s been there for the longest time, since he saw Roy shake Al’s hand and hug him though he wouldn’t even brush Ed’s hand while passing him a document. 

There’s a kind of agony writ on Roy’s face that makes Ed’s chest ache with sympathy. He wants to believe him, even though he’s not sure he can accept what Roy is saying. It matters more that _ wants _ to. 

Roy stretches a hand out and his hand is shaking. Ed remembers how, when he’d put his trembling hand on Roy’s arm, Roy had covered it with his own, just to lend him a little strength. “May I?” He asks, more bravely than Ed thinks _ he _ could have been. 

Ed nods, even though he’s not sure what Mustang is asking, and steps forward, meeting him halfway. Roy’s hand touches his cheek, gently at first and then firmly after that, and Ed covers Roy’s hand with his own, tilting his head and pressing his face into Roy’s palm. Roy exhales shakily and Ed can feel the tremor in his body, and steps even closer. Roy’s hand hovers over his waist before Ed reaches back and presses it onto his body, inviting Roy to touch. 

“I’m dreaming,” Roy whispers, fingertips stroking Ed’s hair where it’s hanging out of his ponytail and framing his face. 

“If it makes it better, I used to have the biggest crush on you. When I was younger, I mean.” 

Roy winces and his fingers curl against Ed’s cheek, almost in self defence. “Used to?”

“Crushes are fleeting,” Ed shakes his head and tries to explain. “Transient. I don’t have a crush on you now, Roy. Now I want you to be happy, even if it means you don’t want me around.”

Roy exhales shakily. “I must have been blind,” he whispers, self-loathing in every word. “How could I have not seen that you were right in front of me all along?” 

Ed musters his courage and inches into Roy’s embrace and presses his forehead against Roy’s shoulder, reminiscent of their slow dance. Roy doesn’t let him down, wrapping Ed in an embrace and dismantling the final traces of any distance between them. “Thank god,” he whispers. “Thank god.” 

He doesn’t have to specify what he’s grateful for; Ed is grateful for the same thing. 

“I’m so tired of being alone,” Ed whispers, finally admitting what’s been bearing down like an anchor on his shoulders. “I’m so - Roy, I don’t want to be alone, anymore.” 

Roy’s embrace tightens and his hand presses against the back of Ed’s damp hair. “You’re not. You won’t be. I promise. No more masks.”

Ed exhales shakily and nods, still pressed into Roy’s chest. “Thank-” he starts to say, but Roy tilts his face up and kisses the words right out of his mouth. It’s sweet and soft and dizzying, and it reminds Ed that he’s still standing there in just his towel. 

When Roy pulls back, Ed can’t stop staring at his mouth, his swollen lips, spit-slick. “Never thank me for loving you,” he says, palms flat on his back, searing marks into his skin, as far as Ed can tell. “I’m the lucky one.” 

Ed huffs and kisses Roy again, just a simple press of the lips, but Roy still looks dumbstruck. “Let’s just agree to disagree on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone notice that in the first half, Ed calls Roy 'Mustang' in his head, and in the second half he calls him 'Roy'?
> 
> I wish I could write an Alphonse-omake but I am _pooped_.
> 
> Send love, pls <3

**Author's Note:**

> I know the resolution was pretty fast but I was tired and it was either this or my brain getting distracted by another idea and me not being able to finish this for another five to eight years, so. I picked my battles. I hope the angst/fluff was sufficient. Please send love.


End file.
